Ratchet digs under his bed for the small bottle of lotion in his wash kit and rubs some on his hands, then takes one of Whirl's between them. His own hands are discolored slightly, the silvery-pale rope of scars wrapping each wrist a visible contrast, but the press of his thumbs are firm as he starts rubbing slowly, pressing in against tense muscle and bone and the thick, knotted tissue, long-damaged. It's not quite like what York taught him but it's the same principle, and it certainly can't hurt.

"So," he says, his eyes intent on his work and not on Whirl's face. "The DJD, you said? How the hell did that happen?"